


Pilot

by Living_Underground



Series: 219 [1]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Episode: s01e01 Pilot, F/M, PWP, Smut, pilot sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:14:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,365
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27732877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Living_Underground/pseuds/Living_Underground
Summary: Pilot sex because why not?
Relationships: Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Series: 219 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2028634
Comments: 3
Kudos: 52





	Pilot

**Author's Note:**

> I know, I wrote pilot sex, like, two days ago. But I have decided that, in order to better my writing of sexy times, I want to task myself with writing a smutty something for each episode. Yeah. Look, I'm already regretting it. But I think it will be an interesting challenge. One I probably definitely won't ever complete, because, if I include the films, that's 219 pieces. And, y'know, that is a lot of sex. Also, I don't ever complete anything. 
> 
> But I figure if I don't actually push myself and just let what happens happen, I might be able to achieve something. 
> 
> I think as much as possible I'll keep each episode mostly unrelated to the next. Like, at least for the early cases, each piece will be standalone.

She’s soft in his arms. Pliant. A small, lithe body, trembling with a fear he understands perfectly. And he’s hard against her. Of course, he is. He curses himself, curses his inappropriate timing and his perverse mind. But she’s beautiful, his new partner, this strange odd-ball of a woman who rewrote Einstein and insists that she’s a perfect little scientist until she’s rolling her eyes at him and laughing at his crazed ideas, prim and proper in suits two sizes too big, wide-eyed gaze taking in everything like a child. And she had hurried into his room, a sweet, innocent voice asking him to look at something before dropping her robe, a scene straight from one of his videos if it hadn’t been the plain white cotton of her briefs and bra.

He thinks of stepping back, apologising, hoping they never bring it up again and she doesn’t file a sexual harassment complaint with HR. But instead, she rolls her hips, pressing herself closer to him.

As she breathes easier in his embrace, tucking her chin upwards on his chest to brush lips against his Adam’s apple, he wonders briefly if she came over to his room to seduce him, if this was all in her game plan to infiltrate her way into his trust. Two can play at that game, he thinks, before wishing he could take it back; she seems earnest, eager to please, keen on the work like she enjoys the challenge of it and of him.

If she does think she can gain his trust this way, she’s wrong, but he’s not got much presence of mind to stop her as nimble fingers tug at his belt and open-mouthed kisses are pressed up his neck, down his jaw.

And who’s he to stop the lady? Especially when she’s almost bare under the slippery material of her robe and it’s been so, so long. A year? Two? Three? He doesn’t know how long, can’t remember when Diana left him. But, _oh_ , as she snicks his zipper down, and he grasps at her shoulders to stabilize himself, all thoughts of Diana leave him, all thoughts of stopping her leave him, all thoughts…well.

There is a hesitancy shared between eyes, despite the boldness of her movements, despite the confidence he displays as he slips his hands into the collar of her robe, pushes it down to the floor.

When his shirts are off, the beginnings of a pile on the chair under the window, and his khakis are riding low on his hips, belt and fly loose, she goes to drop to her knees before him, all hooded-eye and seductive, but he catches her by her armpits, shakes his head. He won’t last.

So she steps back instead and unclasps her bra, drops her panties to the floor and stands there before him, chin held high, a challenge.

A challenge he accepts.

His belt buckle hits the floor in time with a flash of lightning and she jumps, eyes flicking to the window, the rain sluicing down it and blurring the world outside to oblivion, keeping them in their own world. He thinks of isolation and of lost cities and of clinging to life in all its forms. He thinks of boys in comas and girls reading in wheelchairs.

When he reaches out to touch her arm she turns her head to him, casts her gaze down, and he watches as the softly defined muscles of her abdomen ripple. He wonders what she’s thinking. He doesn’t think he really has to wonder, not when he takes in the teeth pressing into her plump bottom lip, or the glisten of reflected candlelight on coarse, trimmed hairs.

What they’re waiting for, he doesn’t know, not until the starting pistol crack of thunder has them lunging for one another, hands frantic as they pull themselves together, blurring their outlines.

She weighs of nothing when he lifts her into his arms, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he lowers her to the bed, pulling him with her. A hand slides down her torso, an intrepid explorer nearing his goal, the peak of the mountain in sight, pace hurried for those last few steps as he cups her heat, swirls a finger around and down, testing the waters.

A prompt for protection from her and he is leaning away, one finger still diligently finding his way around her, as he fumbles left-handedly for his wallet, the condom he keeps there, more a talisman of luck, a reminder of a misspent youth, than for the unlikely case he gets lucky.

She takes it from him when he struggles, and with practised ease slips it onto him. He considers her capabilities, how natural this all seems to her, and his mind flicks back to the question of whether this was her plan, but then he catches on her cross and his mind goes other places, short skirts and innocent smiles that are anything but. She might be younger than him, but he has no doubt that she’s more comfortable than he is – a part of him wants to sit up with her all night and gossip, talk first kisses and worst times and disclose all of his horrifying, embarrassing, fumbling and traumatic experiences to her, certain that she’d never judge or disparage him.

But he doesn’t. They won’t talk yet. Not until he’s pushed into her and she’s gasped, held his hips still to give them both time to adjust to his size; her tightness.

At first, he goes slowly, a tentative rhythm, building up speed when she moans out a quiet sound and finds a footing on the edge of the mattress, gaining purchase and leverage to rock her hips up to meet his.

He drops his head, his lips finding a breast in the dark, nuzzling supple flesh to a peak, laving and sucking and nipping as her nails scraping down his back, over his scalp, encourage him on.

He’s certain when he tilts his head back to the ceiling to take a breath and she leans up to latch her mouth to his neck, returning the same pressures that he had applied to her breasts, that he wasn’t going to be able to hold off much longer, not with her tight heat grasping at him the way it was, not with her hands roaming his body, finding each sensitive spot without any hesitancy or apprehension, like she was mapping out an anatomical figure, and certainly not with the subtle mewling sounds she was making.

Grasping one of her hands in his own, he tugs it down to their joining, flinching as her nails drag against his sensitive flesh when he pulls out and plunges back in again. He presses his thumb against her clit and she gets his message with a whimper, guiding his fingers to a rhythm of her own devising, just slightly off the pace their bodies have established together; slightly faster, slightly harder.

There’s a flutter and a clench and a ripple around him as her body contracts, knees jolting upwards and teeth biting into his shoulder, her body coiling and constricting around him, silent but for her rapid gasps and a muffled _fuck_.

It’s the fuck that does it for him, that one word from her pretty little scientist mouth echoing in his head as he comes, body stiffening with a grunt and a groan as she continues to tremor around him.

They are the crescendo and the trill and the coda of a silent orchestra, the room heavy with sweat and sex and recovering breaths as he slumps down half on top of her and she lets her legs fall open, still somewhat entangled with his.

When they’ve regained their strength enough to redress themselves, they’ll do so without looking at one another, each taking a side of the room, the bed as the midline. She’ll lay herself out, tuck a blanket around her to stave off the chill, and he’ll sit on the floor beside her, tell her of a lost little girl, and a terrified little boy, and a quest to slay a dragon of conspiring higher powers.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, and particularly with this, feedback is always welcome :)
> 
> (And if you have any ideas for scenarios for specific episodes, just say - particularly the trickier, definitely not sexy episodes. I mean, I'm already panicking about Deep Throat because, despite having one of the most provocative titles of all the episodes, I'm struggling to come up with any ideas for it. Wait. Actually, no, I think I have something. But leave ideas anyway, you never know, they might come in handy)
> 
> <3


End file.
